


Touch Wood

by LivinOnARarePair



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Pittsburgh Penguins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 06:33:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2057583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivinOnARarePair/pseuds/LivinOnARarePair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Actually, I’ve been playing wis Matt Niskanen.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch Wood

**Author's Note:**

> Started with Despres's off day interview on Dec. 4th, and then . . . plot bunnies, although it really doesn't have much plot. Follows the 2013-14 season.

“Actually, I’ve been playing wis Matt Niskanen.”

Matt’s head snaps up at the sound of his name on his d-partner’s lips. There are a few reporters crowded around Simon Despres, and Simon is grinning like always, like he is off somewhere else in his head, while the reporter corrects himself.

“And, uh, he’s been great; we’ve been really solid defensively,” he says. “We didn’t give up, uh, five-on-five goal in four games. Touch wood.” Here he leans down to rap his knuckles on the bench. “And we gotta keep going like that.”

“Touch wood, Despres!” Flower calls, pumping his fist in the air.

Matt laughs in the tendy’s direction. The reporters thank Simon and disperse, probably to bother Crosby, and Simon ambles over to Matt.

“That’s the phrase, right?” he lisps.

Matt wants to squeeze him. “It’s ‘knock on wood’.”

“Trying to tell us something there, eh, Touch Wood?” Flower says, elbowing Simon playfully.

Simon dons his confused look.

“Wood is slang for . . . _Un gaffe_ ,” Matt supplies.

“Oh,” Simon grins.

“Something _you_ want to tell us, Matty?” Flower teases.

Matt wrinkles his nose, and Flower laughs. “Why do you know the French word for boner?”

Matt shrugs. “I’ve been playing hockey my whole life. I’ve had countless French-Canadian teammates. Eventually, you start to pick it up.”

“And you picked up _le gaffe_?”

Matt focuses all his energy on not blushing. “You know how hockey players talk.” He is absolutely not going to admit the truth.

Flower laughs. “You’ve got a point. Alright, Matty, you’re off the hook for now, but I’ll get you next time.” Finally, he steals across the locker room to bother Tanger.

Matt looks back to Simon to see him grinning right back. He nods to the French-Canadian and ducks his head, turning back to his stall and tugging his undershirt over his head.

When Matt gets home that night, he watches Simon’s post-game interview on his tablet. Simon looks so happy to be back up playing with the team, and he’s good with the reporters; he actually looks at them when he’s answering their questions, unlike Matt, who usually stares at their shoes. A warmth spreads through Matt’s chest as he watches the video, and his heart leaps when Simon says his name. He finds himself smiling, and . . . 

Fuck.

He has a crush on his d-partner.

The game the next day is great. They beat San Jose five to one. Simon gets an assist that he’s still grinning about in the locker room. And Matt is an awkward mess. He’s usually awkward anyway, but now he’s paranoid, too. He’s trying too hard to not stare at Simon too much, and it’s probably really fucking obvious. Flower lets him know it is, waiting for Simon’s back to be turned before shoving a slip of paper into Matt’s hand, and leaning in to speak conspiratorially. “Ask him out to dinner. Players get half-off.” And then Simon’s back, grinning at Matt, and Matt can feel his cheeks burning, but Simon just cocks his head and then turns to his stall to tug his shirt off. Matt drops his head guiltily at the first twitch of toned muscle underneath sweaty skin. Flower snickers beside him, and Matt flips him off. The only thing he says to Simon before leaving is a quick “See you tomorrow.”

The team is flying out early the next morning so they can get to Boston and rest up for the game the next day. Matt gets to the rink ten minutes before the bus is about to leave. Sid gives him a look, but Matt just yawns and shuffles past him onto the bus. Flower is sitting beside Simon towards the middle of the bus, and they’re laughing and cutting up while the rest of the bleary-eyed bus glares at them. When Flower sees Matt coming, he jumps up and ushers Matt into the seat by Simon. “I saved you a seat, Nisky. Here, sit next to Touch Wood.” And he scampers off to sit next to Tanger.

“G’morning, Niskanen,” Simon smiles softly.

Matt nods minutely. He’s still about halfway asleep and doesn’t plan on waking up anymore than that. Soon, the bus rumbles to life, and Matt slumps down in his seat, pulling his toque low over his eyebrows and resting his chin on his chest. Beside him, Simon is warm, but a little fidgety, turning book pages every few minutes. There’s a buzz of quiet conversation from the few guys that are actually awake, and some obscure foreign music is coming through someone’s headphones nearby. The heat in the bus is cranked up, and it’s easy for Matt to fall back asleep. What feels like about eight seconds later, he’s being shaken awake gently.

“Wake up, Matt. We have to go get on the plane,” Simon’s voice floats through his sleepy haze. Matt groans but hauls himself upright and stumbles off the bus, Simon’s steadying hand warm on his back, barely a ghost touch on his jacket, like Simon thinks if he doesn’t actually touch Matt, he won’t know. Matt doesn’t say anything about it.

He stumbles through security, forgets to take off his belt, and gets pulled aside for a pat down. They finally get to the terminal, and Matt finds a bench to curl up on. He wakes up about half an hour before the plane is about to board, so he gets up, goes to the bathroom, stops at a shop to buy a water bottle and a Sports Illustrated, and takes to walking around the terminal because he’s about to be cramped up in a flying can for a few hours. Simon joins him, bumping his shoulder and grinning, but not trying to make conversation. Finally, they board the plane; Matt sits next to Simon again, and is finally awake enough that he’s not a complete zombie. They discuss the upcoming game until the plane reaches cruising altitude, and then they join one of the many video game wars, pairing up against Flower and Tanger for a game of capture the flag in Call of Duty. Together, they slaughter in every battle they join until touchdown in Boston. Some of the guys turn around to cuss them, but they loop their arms around each other’s shoulders and laugh.

They’re bussed to the hotel where they’re allowed to rest for an hour before afternoon practice. It feels awesome to get out on the ice, to move and stretch after a whole day of sitting in finite spaces. They go out for team dinner which is always nice, taking the time to spend with the guys, listening to Sid talk about what they need to do to win tomorrow and cutting up when someone distracts him and gets him going one-on-one. And then it’s a scramble to get back to their hotel rooms, tiptoe-running through halls like teenagers sneaking in after curfew.

The Pens draw first blood against the Bruins the next day. In the first, Matt gets an assist for which, once he’s back on the bench, Simon slaps his helmet, grinning. Then the Bruins score, but the Pens answer three minutes later. Nealer gets the goal; Matt and Simon coming up with the assists. They meet in the celly on either side of Nealer, grinning at each other.

“Nice assists!” Nealer grins at them.

The second passes without score, and the Pens take a two-one lead into the third. Aaand that’s when the game goes to shit. The Bruins score two that the Pens are unable to answer, and they take a 2-3 loss into the lockerroom. Sid yells about overconfidence and they can’t stop playing just because they have the lead. Post-game workout is silent, and when they finally retire to the hotel, everyone pretty much passes out in their defeat.

It’s another early morning bus ride and flight, and then they’re back in Pittsburgh, which always feels like a refresh, like clearing the slate after a tough loss, like starting over in front of their fans who will follow them loyally, no matter what happens. It feels like home. Afternoon practice on home ice is always better than on the road, even when Sid makes them do extra drills. The rest of the evening is uneventful, and then it’s game day again, and Columbus has dared to come to their barn and challenge them. Neither Matt nor Simon rack up any points but the Pens take a two-one victory.

And finally they have a few days without games. Morning skate the day after the game is optional. Matt sure as fuck isn’t going; he sleeps til noon when he’s woken by someone knocking on his door. He considers ignoring it, but ten minutes after the knocking stops, his phone rings. . . And then again ten minutes after that. Matt groans and drags himself to the edge of his bed. He snatches his phone off the nightstand and pulls it under the covers with him, blinking at the too bright screen. The message is from Simon, asking if he’s home.

‘Sleeping,’ Matt types back.

‘Sorry.’ he gets back. Then, ‘Thought we could hang out today. Text me if you want to later?’

‘Sure,’ Matt sends, then drops his phone in the floor, turns over, and goes back to sleep.

Matt wakes two hours later and steps on his phone getting out of bed. He stumbles to the bathroom for an indulgent shower, standing under the stream of hot water for twenty minutes. When he drags himself out of the steam, he dresses comfortably and pads into his kitchen to try to scrounge up lunch, only to find he doesn’t have any food. Awesome. He goes back to his bedroom and retrieves his phone from the floor.

‘Want to do lunch?’ he texts Simon.

‘Sure. Where to?’ Simon texts back.

Matt twirls his thumbs over the keyboard, thinking. And then he spies the half-sheet of paper Flower pushed into his hands almost a week ago. ‘I know a place.’ He types slowly. ‘I’ll drive.’

‘Be there in twenty. J’

Matt dresses and waits. He meets Simon in the parking garage, Flower’s note stuffed in his pocket. He pulls out onto the main road . . . And chickens out, turning towards the center of town rather than towards the outskirts. He stops at a small corner café where they share a pleasant lunch before retreating to Matt’s apartment for video games. Simon sits a little close to him on the couch, but Matt chalks it up to Simon being an overly-friendly Canadian once again. At practice the next day, they run drills together, and Matt gets many a stick to his shins and shoulder bumps from Flower, and then the tendy’s bony elbow in his side more times than he can count when Simon won’t stop prattling on in the locker room. And then Simon swats Matt’s bare ass before scampering off to the showers. Matt will probably have a permanent blush running all the way down his chest and a permanent elbow-shaped bruise on his spine from that one. He pulls his boxers on, mumbling something about waiting til he gets home to shower. He probably sets a personal record for dressing after practice, his t-shirt sticking to his still sweat-damp chest even as he pulls it down over his front and bolts. Simon only swatted him on the ass, something that happens across the locker room at least once a week, and yet it has gotten Matt _this_ worked up. It’s ridiculous really. He takes a cold shower when he gets home and piles up in sweats on his couch to watch whatever movie he can find on tv.

He’s a mess at practice the next day, missing passes, allowing breakaways, and falling on his ass a few times, basically fucking up every time Simon skates near him. Coach yells at him a lot, and every time he skates close enough, Flower taps his shins with his stick sympathetically. And of course, he gets no break in the locker room.

“You okay, Matt? Not getting sick, are you?” Simon asks, and he sounds genuinely concerned.

Matt shakes his head. “Just a little off today. I’ll be back on my game tomorrow.”

“Good,” Simon grins, and lets it drop.

Flower elbows the shit out of him, but Matt ignores the tendy.

“You wanna hang out?” Simon asks.

“What?” comes out of Matt’s mouth before he can stop it.

“We could go out somewhere. Would say back to my place, but there’s not much to do in a hotel room.” (Flower digs his elbow into Matt’s back.) “But we could go back to your place, if that’s okay?”

“Um . . . ,” Matt tries. “Sure. We can go back to my place. I’ve got Xbox, and we can order pizza or something.”

Simon flashes his thousand-watt grin. “Great.”

Matt assumes that Simon will follow in his car, but he follows Matt to his car in the parking garage, and stashes his bag in the back with Matt’s, before sliding into the passenger seat. French people are generally direct, Matt knows, and right now he can’t find it in himself to care, so he just pulls out of the parking garage and onto the main road. He turns the radio to his favorite station, because the silence will drive him nuts. Simon watches out the window with his usual spacey smile that Matt is quickly falling in love with, and nods his head to the beat of the song. Something possesses Matt to say, “Hey, Flower was telling me about this awesome place outside of town. You wanna go out for dinner?”

“You trust Flower?” Simon grins.

Matt laughs. “About as far as I can throw him.”

Simon looks confused, and Matt just shakes his head.

“We can try it if you want to,” Simon says.

“Alright,” Matt says and fishes the paper Flower gave him out of the pocket of his jeans where it’s been since the day they went to lunch together. The car starts to drift out of the road, and Simon reaches over and takes hold of the wheel, nudging the car back into the lane and holding it there. He’s so close, Matt can feel the warmth radiating off of him. He unfolds the paper with shaking hands and lays it over the wheel, taking hold of it again, and Simon sits back. Matt glances between the paper and the road; the directions seem straight-forward enough. He folds the paper back in half, tosses it in the center console, and drives.

He gets lost outside of town. He drives, circling back several times and taking countless wrong turns. Simon reads over Flower’s note and tries to help, but they are far away from any familiar landmarks. They do eventually find the diner, but the sun is down, and the place has been closed for an hour. Simon gets out of the car anyway, and Matt follows. They climb up to sit on the hood of Matt’s car, laying back against the windshield. It feels like a teenage date which is ridiculous, but Matt’s heart is racing anyway. Simon is _right there_ , and he’s so warm.

Matt points up at the sky. “North Star.”

Simon raises his hand alongside Matt’s, pointing at the same star cluster. “Big Dipper.” He moves his hand. “Little Dipper.”

“North Star is the only one I know,” Matt says quietly.

Simon turns his head to grin at the smaller boy. “Want me to show you a few?”

His voice is so soft, and he’s so warm. “Yes, please,” Matt says, voice embarrassingly breathless.

Simon looks back to the sky. “There’s Cepheus. And Cassiopeia.”

Matt tries to remember the positions and names of the different constellations, but he has to give up after nine or ten, and lets himself focus on the lilt of Simon’s voice, its rise and fall as he points out each constellation, the way he presses closer when he points to constellations in the east, his sheer warmth. Matt shivers because it’s fucking cold out, and Simon scoots that tiny bit closer, so their sides are pressed together. His hand slips into Matt’s, and he raises their hands together and points to the sky. “ . . . Which brings us right back to the North Star.”

“That’s really neat,” Matt chokes out.

He can feel Simon shrug beside him. “I took an astronomy class in high school, and in Canada, you pick up this stuff in case you get lost, or whatever.”

Matt shivers again and fights the urge to curl himself into Simon’s side.

“You cold?” Simon asks.

Matt nods. “A little.”

“We can go, if you want.”

Matt shrugs. “Whenever you’re ready to go.”

Simon laughs. “Let’s go, Matty.” He slides off the hood, leaving Matt’s side cold. They slide into the car, and Matt starts it, cranking up the heat. He manages to not get lost on the way back into town, but it’s eleven o’clock, they have a game tomorrow, and he knows the hotel Simon is staying at is on the other side of town. By the time they get back to the parking garage so Simon can get his car and he drives to his hotel, it will be around midnight, and they _do_ have a game tomorrow. It’s a bad idea. But . . . 

“You wanna just crash at my place tonight?”

Simon looks at him, eyes shining in the semi-darkness. “Really?”

Matt shrugs casually. “If you want. You’re staying on the other side of town, right? That’s a ways to go, and it’s late, so, sure.”

“I won’t be in the way or anything?” Simon asks.

Matt shakes his head. “Teammates are family.”

Oh, _weird_.

“Thank you, Nisky,” Simon says. “You’re really great.”

Matt blushes, and he hopes it’s dark enough that Simon won’t notice. They get to Matt’s building and race inside. The elevator ride up is uncomfortably warm, worse so when Simon shrugs out of his jacket revealing a deliciously too tight, long-sleeved t-shirt underneath. He just grins when he catches Matt staring at his broad shoulders. Matt leads him to his apartment, and . . . Problem.

“I, uh . . . ,” Matt feels his face get hot. “I only have the one bedroom. So, you can take my bed, and I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“No, no. We have a game tomorrow. You go sleep in your bed. I’ll take the couch,” Simon insists.

“It’s fine, really. The couch is plenty comfortable. I sleep there most nights anyway,” Matt counters.

Simon chews his lip uncertainly. “Sure?”

Matt refuses to suggest what he’s thinking, that they share the bed. That they strip each other down slowly, and slide under the covers, pressing their heat together, and where the fuck did _that_ come from? He knows he’s blushing harder than ever, and his cock gives an interested twitch that has him shifting his weight from one leg to the other to cover it up.

“Are you sure you’re not getting sick?” Simon asks, and before Matt can react, the French-Canadian has reached up and pressed the back of his hand to Matt’s forehead. “You’re burning up,” he muses.

Matt panics. He doesn’t want to miss tomorrow’s game with some fake bug, but he certainly can’t tell the truth. “Just . . . Just a little warm,” he stammers.

“Hm,” Simon says, looking unconvinced. “You’re sleeping in your bed tonight.”

Matt huffs and rolls his eyes, but smiles. “Let’s discuss it over dinner. I don’t really have food, but anywhere you’d like to order from?”

Simon shrugs, grinning. “You pick.”

Matt orders from an Italian place and they pile up on his couch to watch A Good Day To Die Hard. The food arrives and they polish it off together and finish watching the movie. As the credits roll, Matt turns to Simon, about to tell him he can sleep in Matt’s bed, but the other boy claps a hand over his mouth.

“In case you are getting sick,” Simon says. “You sleep in your bed.”

Matt swallows hard.

“Okay?” Simon says.

Matt nods, and Simon drops his hand and grins at the other boy. “Good. Now go get some sleep. We have a game tomorrow.”

“You gonna be good in here?” Matt asks.

Simon nods.

“If . . .”

“I’ll be fine,” Simon says.

Matt blushes. “Okay.”

“Good,” Simon smiles.

“I’ll go get you a blanket,” Matt says. He stands shakily and goes to his bedroom, pulling a blanket off the bed. When he returns, Simon is folding his pants and draping them over the arm of the couch, and . . . Simon Despres is standing in Matt’s living room in his boxers and t-shirt. Matt feels his cheeks heating, and he hands Simon the blanket wordlessly. Simon grins, and Matt’s knees nearly give out.

“Thank you, Matt,” Simon says softly. He takes the blanket and stretches it out on the couch. Then he looks up, eyes bright. He gets a hand in Matt’s shirt and pulls him forward so he’s leaning precariously over the back of the couch. Then he leans forward and kisses both of Matt’s cheeks. And . . . Matt knows it’s a French thing, but the only guys that have kissed his cheeks before had been guys he’d slept with before they’d left. Friends don’t usually . . . But . . .

“Goodnight, Matt,” Simon murmurs.

“G’night, Simon,” Matt says shakily. “I’ll, uh . . . see you in the morning.”

Simon smiles and nods. Matt forces himself to turn and retreat to his bedroom. He closes the door and slumps against it, sliding down to sit in the floor. And . . . He’s only human, dammit. He pushes his track pants down his thighs and gets a hand around his half-hard cock. He strokes himself to full hardness then fists his cock fast and a little rough. It doesn’t take long for him to come, barely getting his shirt out the way in time so he spills on his bare stomach instead of staining his Pens tee. He takes a second to catch his breath before hauling himself up and into the bathroom. He cleans up, changes, and slides into his cold sheets. Matt shivers, pulling the sheets up to his chin. And then it hits him. He just jerked off because his _teammate_ kissed him on the _cheek_.

Matt doesn’t get much sleep that night.

He lets Simon shower first, carefully not thinking about him wet and naked in his apartment while he busies himself with breakfast. Simon traipses into the kitchen when Matt is just finishing their omelets ( _du fromage_ , merci beaucoup), curls hanging limp and wet, sticking to the sides of his neck. And grinning. Why does he always have to be grinning? Matt thinks dismally, weakly offering Simon a plate. Simon takes it and one-arm hugs Matt.

“Thank you, Matt,” Simon murmurs by Matt’s ear. “You’re the greatest.”

Then he’s making his way to Matt’s dining room and sitting down at the small table. And all Matt can do is follow. He sits down across from Simon, and their knees knock under the table. Simon nudges at Matt absently, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Which . . . He may not. The boy never sits still. Matt eats quietly while Simon makes one sided conversation about the game ahead. He doesn’t seem to mind that Matt’s being a lousy conversation partner.

After breakfast, Matt goes to shower and focuses on not thinking about the fact that Simon had been standing right here, wet and naked, only a half an hour ago. It doesn’t work. He rubs one out, biting off a moan as he spills over his fist. He quickly finishes his shower, wraps his towel around his hips, and tiptoes into his bedroom, not caring that he‘s dripping all over the floor. He shakes out his hair and blinks the water out of his eyes, and . . . There is Simon sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed. Matt instinctively clutches his towel a little tighter, wishing he’d had the foresight to brings his clothes into the bathroom with him. He moves around his room, dressing hurriedly while Simon sits idly picking at a string on his sweats. Once dressed, Matt sits down next to Simon, reveling in his teammate’s warmth.

“Almost time for morning skate,” Simon muses.

“Guess we should get ready to go,” Matt says dejectedly. He’d be happy to sit here next to Simon all day.

Simon puts his hand on Matt’s knee. “Thank you for letting me spend the night here,” he says softly.

“No problem,” Matt chokes out.

Simon smiles, and fuck, Matt just wants to kiss him. Instead he stutters. “We sh-should go.”

Simon tilts his head, looking at Matt for a second before sighing and levering himself off the bed. Matt follows, and they walk silently down to the parking lot. Matt drives them to the rink, and they’re early, but it gives Simon a chance to do whatever the hell he’s doing in his car. Matt’s a little worried. Usually you can’t pay the kid to shut up, but he hasn’t said anything since they left.

Simon doesn’t say much to Matt during practice; he actually stays closer to Flower which can only mean trouble. The Pens take down the Devils that night, and are allowed to go home and sleep for a handful of hours before they have to be back at the rink to be bussed to the airport. The week is full of games and the Pens take up a good winning streak. . . Until the last game before the Christmas break. They get blanked by the Ottawa Nobodies, say unenthusiastic goodbyes, and retreat to their respective families for the holidays.

Through this time, Matt and Simon hang out regularly, Simon always being overly prone to touching and Matt always chalking it up to Simon being Simon. Now, after the game, each of them going their separate ways, they stand together, stamping their feet in the snow, carefully not looking at each other. . . Until Flower runs by and shoves Matt into Simon. Simon catches him, and then won’t let go.

“Gonna miss you, Nisky,” he murmurs into Matt’s shoulder.

“You, too, Simon,” Matt whispers, hugging Simon back.

Then Simon’s pulling back, but it’s only to take Matt’s face between his hands and press their mouths together. And then he’s running off, calling over his shoulder, “See you after break, Matty!”

Still standing by, Flower laughs at him while Matt can only stand frozen, staring after the other boy. And then Flower’s slapping his shoulder, drawing him from his reverie.

“I told you, fuckwit! You are so oblivious sometimes!”

“Shut up,” Matt says half-heartedly. “So he . . . ?”

“Duh?”

It’s the longest three days of Matt’s life. He texts Simon constantly, but Simon never texts back.

Finally, the Pens are reunited in Pittsburgh only to be shipped down to Carolina. They battle hard and finally take the game four to three in overtime. Neither Matt nor Simon manage to record any points, but the win is still awesome. The pair skips going out with the guys to go back to their hotel room that Simon had finagled to make sure they got to spend the night in together. They race each other down the hall to their room, giggling and trading chaste kisses. Matt fumbles with the key card, hands shaking, but finally gets the door open. Simon pushes him inside, kicks the door closed behind them, and pushes Matt up against the wall.

“Matt, are you sure you . . . ?” Simon starts.

Matt cuts him off with a kiss, fingers clutching wrinkles into Simon’s suit jacket. Simon holds him close and kisses him, just as overeager. They get a little hung up there, standing against that wall as the minutes tick by unnoticed. Finally, Matt starts pushing Simon’s jacket off his shoulders; Simon shrugs out of it, letting it crumple on the ground, and his hands move to the buttons of Matt’s dress shirt, fumbling slightly, but making quick work of them. Matt shivers as his skin is exposed. Simon’s hands dip inside to span his ribs, and Matt groans into Simon’s mouth. Simon leans back to press their foreheads together and smile at the other boy as he pushes Matt’s shirt off his shoulders, letting it flutter to the floor. Simon pulls him over to the bed and guides Matt back onto it. Matt stretches out, putting himself on display for Simon, shivering as Simon’s eyes rake over him. Then Simon moves up to lay beside him.

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

And then they’re kissing again, Matt pulling Simon on top of him. His hands fumble at the buttons of Simon’s shirt and finally get them undone. Simon wiggles out of the shirt, never allowing their mouths to disconnect. Then his hands move to Matt’s dress pants. Matt groans and bucks up into the touch.

“I know, I know,” Simon says, fumbling with the button.

He finally pushes the dress pants off Matt’s hips, and Matt shimmies the rest of the way out of them, letting them fall to pool at the end of the bed. Then he goes for Simon’s pants, somehow managing to get the fastenings undone. Simon stands to slip out of them, and then slides back onto Matt, trailing his mouth up the exposed, heated skin.

“Can I . . . Can I fuck you?”

“Fuck,” Matt swears, trying to gather what brainpower he has left. “You have no idea how much I want to say yes. . . But we have a game the day after tomorrow. I don’t want to take that chance.”

“Fuck,” Simon agrees. “Right.”

He gets a thigh between Matt’s legs, and Matt swears vehemently and shudders beneath him. Matt ruts up against his thigh, and Simon ruts against Matt’s hip, both moving erratically eurhythmic.

“Fuck, fuck, Simon,” Matt gasps, and Simon kisses him, hot and dirty. Matt loses his rhythm first, grinding his hips up desperately as he approaches climax. And then Simon flexes his thigh muscle just right, adjusting his own angle, and Matt is done. He bucks up once, twice more and comes so hard he nearly passes out. Simon rubs his thigh against Matt, drawing his orgasm out as best he can, and then he’s stilling and coming against Matt’s hip. He manages to move so he only falls half on top of Matt.

“Fuck,” Matt swears on an exhale. “That was . . . That was something.”

“Good something?” Simon asks, raising his head from Matt’s chest.

Matt nods. “Very good something.”

“Good,” Simon nods, moving to lay beside Matt.

Matt turns to face him. “So . . . What the fuck just happened?”

“We both just jizzed in our boxers?” Simon makes a face.

“No, I mean . . . We just . . .”

Simon turns bright, brown eyes on him. “You think too much.” And he leans over to kiss Matt. “I like you, you like me, and we just got each other off. What else is there to it?”

“It feels like there should be more to it.”

“Do you want me to tell you I love you?”

Matt freezes, and Simon laughs and reaches up to tousle his sweaty hair, and Matt relaxes against his side. Simon slings an arm over Matt and kisses his temple. “You okay, Matty?”

“I . . . Yeah. Yeah, I’m good,” Matt says. “Are you?”

Simon laughs again. “I’m great.”

They lay together for a while, coming down, and finally drag each other out of bed and into the bathroom to clean off. Then they move back to the bedroom, curl up together in the other bed, and make out lazily until they fall asleep.

The wakeup alarm comes obnoxiously early the next morning, and then they’re being shipped back up to Columbus. Simon practices with them, but he gets scratched for the game. The Pens win five to three, and Matt gets an assist. Simon is waiting by Matt’s bag in the locker room after the game, grinning. He pulls Matt into an unsuspicious bro-hug.

“Nice assist.”

“Missed you out there,” Matt whispers back.

Matt can’t sit still through post game and skips out on going out with the team to go back to the hotel with Simon. They race down the hall, laughing like children. Simon presses him into their door while Matt fumbles the key card into the slot behind him. The door opens, and Matt tumbles backwards, landing on his back on the floor inside the room, Simon coming down on top of him. Matt’s breath leaves him in a rush, and Simon laughs at him, leaning up to nudge the door closed behind them. Then he’s back to kissing Matt and getting his shirt off. The carpet itches against Matt’s back, but then Simon gets his mouth on Matt’s neck, and he couldn’t care less as long as Simon doesn’t stop. Simon skims his hands down Matt’s chest and down to tuck his fingers into the waistband of Matt’s dress pants. Matt groans and rolls his hips into Simon’s grasp. Simon hums against Matt’s pulse point, making Matt shiver. Matt barely registers Simon thumbing open the button and tugging the zipper down until he nudges at Matt’s hips to get him to tilt up so Simon can pull his dress pants and boxers down out of the way. And finally, Simon gets a hand on him. Matt moans lowly, pressing into the touch and grasping at Simon, body thrumming with arousal.

It’s really too dry, and the carpet _itches_ , dammit, but it’s perfect anyway, and Matt’s cock curves up, filling in Simon’s grasp. Simon strokes him slow, sucking at the skin of Matt’s shoulder. Matt reaches up to get a hand in Simon’s hair and pulls his face up gently to kiss him, hot and sloppy. Simon traces his fingertips up and down the vein in Matt’s cock, twisting his wrist to push his thumb at the spot under the head that makes Matt writhe and moan against Simon’s mouth. Simon moves down to nip a line of fire across Matt’s jaw, and Matt tips his head back and to the side to give Simon better access. Simon takes full advantage, finally settling in to suck a mark beneath Matt’s ear. Matt gasps out tiny pleas for Simon to just move his hand _faster_ , but Simon ignores him, making his motions more deliberate, teasing until Matt feels like he’s going to snap.

“Please, Simon,” Matt begs quietly into the other boy’s hair.

Simon just hums against Matt’s neck and flicks his wrist wickedly to press the pad of his thumb to the slit. Matt shivers and gasps silent curses. Simon continues to stroke him, not hard or fast enough to get him off, and Matt loses track of time, falling into his headspace where he’s only aware of Simon’s hand and mouth on him, and it’s nice. Then Simon falters and lets go of Matt.

“What . . . What? No,” Matt pleads, coming back to the surface.

“Still with me there, Matty?” Simon smiles softly.

Matt whimpers, hips canting up in search of any friction.

“Just making sure.”

Simon gets his hand on Matt again, stroking hard and fast and _perfect_. Matt whines in his throat and fucks into Simon’s grasp. With every upstroke, Simon swipes his thumb through the precome steadily dribbling from the head to slick his way.

“Fuckfuckfuck _fuck_!” Matt swears vehemently, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head back and forth on the stupid scratchy carpet. Every nerve in his body, taut like a bowstring, is firing, oversensitive, and it’s too much and nowhere near enough. Simon reaches up with his free hand and presses his thumb into the bruise he’d left on Matt’s neck, and that’s all it takes. Matt comes, hard and hot, striping up his chest and over Simon’s fist. Simon strokes him through it, drawing it out, and Matt feels like he’s laying on the sun instead some stupid, scratchy carpet in some pretentious hotel in one of the lamest states in the nation. And then he’s falling back through the atmosphere and landing back on the floor with a small thump. His chest feels too tight, and he whines, pushing Simon’s hand off of him.

And Simon’s grinning ridiculously up at him. “Was that good?”

Matt barely fights the urge to put Simon in a headlock. “I never . . . Never knew . . . ,” Matt can’t even catch his breath. “Never knew a hand job could be that . . .” There’s not even a word to describe how _amazing_ it was. At least, not one he can think of right now.

“Yeah?” Simon asks.

“Yeah,” Matt nods.

He closes his eyes, catching his breath and coming down. When he gains some awareness, he feels Simon still hard against his thigh. “Do you want me to . . . ?” he gestures vaguely.

“You have that kind of energy?” Simon asks, a little breathless as he grinds down slightly.

“Not really,” Matt shakes his head, eyelids already feeling heavy. “But you could . . . On my face if you want.”

“Really?” Simon asks, looking so stupid with it that all Matt can do is smile and nod. Simon shuffles forward on his knees to straddle Matt’s shoulders. Matt tries to help him undo his pants, but his hands are still too sex-stupid, and Simon pushes them away gently. Simon pushes his pants down just enough to get his dick out. It’s thick and flushed and curves slightly to the left. He strokes it twice before pitching forward, catching himself with a hand by Matt’s head. The tip brushes Matt’s cheek before bobbing back up. His breathing is labored as he pulls slow. And . . . Well, Matt can’t just lay there. He reaches up and wraps his hand around Simon’s on his dick. Simon gasps and drops his hand to the other side of Matt’s head, letting Matt take over. Matt strokes him faster, but without any kind of finesse. From the way Simon is gasping and fucking into Matt’s grasp, bumping his cheek, the corner of his mouth, Simon doesn’t care. It doesn’t take long for him to lose his rhythm, having been hard and neglected for longer. His hips jerk erratically, and Matt closes his eyes when he feels Simon’s thighs tense on either side of his neck.

“Fuck, Matty,” Simon gasps and shudders as he comes, painting hot stripes across Matt’s cheek. Matt strokes him through it and leans up to take the head between his lips, letting Simon streak his tongue with what he has left.

“Fuck,” Simon chokes out and falls to lay beside Matt.

“Bleh,” Matt groans because he’s sweaty and sticky and this carpet _really_ itches.

“You’re filthy,” Simon grins at him.

Matt looks right at him and licks the come out of the corner of his mouth. Simon’s eyes go dark and he reaches over to run his fingers through the mess on Matt’s cheek. Matt watches him and turns his face slightly to catch Simon’s fingertips in his mouth, suck them clean.

“Filthy,” Simon murmurs. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Simon pulls him up and pushes him into the bathroom. He turns the shower on hot, steam filling the small room while he finishes stripping Matt. He pushes Matt into the shower and joins him a moment later. Matt is easy and pliant under Simon’s firm, sure hands while Simon cleans him up. When Simon is satisfied that Matt is clean, he reaches around him to shut off the water, and they step out of the shower. Matt stands, swaying slightly with sheer exhaustion, while Simon pats him dry. Simon dries himself off quickly, and then they stumble back into the bedroom, falling into the bed nearest the door together. Simon pulls the covers over them and lets Matt curl into his side, wrapping an arm around him.

“G’night, Matt,” Simon murmurs, leaning down to kiss Matt’s temple.

“’Night, Simon,” Matt mumbles and promptly falls asleep.

No alarm sounds the next morning. Instead, they wake to someone pounding on the door. “Bus is leaving in fifteen minutes. Let’s go, guys!”

“Shit!” Matt exclaims, leaping out of bed.

“Time is it?” Simon mumbles, not moving.

“Time to go. C’mon, get up.” Matt throws Simon’s shirt at his head.

“Five more minutes,” Simon groans, pulling the covers over his head.

Matt grabs the blankets and pulls them off and into the floor. “We’re _leaving_ in five minutes. Get your lazy ass up.”

They dress quickly, packing their bags in record time, and make it downstairs a minute  
or two late. Sid yells at them and exiles them to the back of the bus, but when Simon bumps his shoulder, grinning, Matt can’t help but think it was worth it.

In the game against the Devils, they spend over a third of the game on the ice together, but the Pens lose one to two. Matt notches the Pens’ only goal in the second. In the celly, Sid’s yelling something about getting back in the game, but Matt has eyes only for Simon who is grinning and prattling something in French as he’s prone to do when he’s excited and forgets what language he’s in. The game ends like that, the year ending on a low note for the Pens. They fly out that night, filing onto the plane silently. Simon pulls Matt to the back of the plane, and Matt is too tired to protest, figuring he’ll spend most of the flight sleeping. Matt pulls his toque low over his ears as he sinks into the uncomfortable seat. He glances up to see Flower standing in the aisle, waiting for Tanger to move. Flower raises his eyebrows, then looks over the empty rows of seats between them and the rest of the guys, then back at Matt. Matt flushes, realizing why Simon must have pulled him to the back of the plane. Flower laughs and slaps Tanger’s ass before taking his own seat. Matt can’t sit still after that, nervous energy thrumming through him. Finally, the plane starts to move, and by takeoff, Matt is clutching his armrest with white knuckles. Simon reaches over and lays a hand on Matt’s knee with a small smile, and Matt nearly jumps out of his seat because there are three rows between them and the rest of the guys, and he is already half hard in his pants, and it’s not _fair_. Matt glances at Simon, then back to his lap. And Simon doesn’t let up. His hand slips down, fingertips brushing up and down the inside seam of Matt’s pants, going higher each time as the plane climbs. Matt would laugh at the parallel if his mind wasn’t so foggy with arousal. And then Simon is cupping him and rubbing teasingly, and Matt just can’t. He lets his head fall back against his seat with a small whimper, rolling his hips into Simon’s touch.

“Matt . . . Matty,” Simon whispers near Matt’s ear. “Think you can be quiet?”

Matt whimpers again and nods. Simon glances towards the front of the plane before sliding out of his seat and sinking to his knees in front of Matt.

“Fuck,” Matt swears.

“Quiet, Matty,” Simon scolds with a wicked smile.

Matt shakes his head back and forth, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth in an effort to keep himself quiet.

Simon squeezes Matt’s knee. “Look at me, Matty.”

“Fuck you,” Matt grits out. “Fuck you so much.”

“Maybe one day. Not here,” Simon muses, making Matt squirm.

Matt groans, and Simon squeezes his knee again. “Quiet.”

“Just get on with it, please,” Matt begs breathlessly.

“Pushy,” Simon scolds, but pops the button of Matt’s dress pants open, then leans forward to tug the zipper down with his teeth. He tugs Matt’s pants and boxers down just far enough to get his mouth on the head of Matt’s cock. Matt swears silently. As they reach cruising altitude, Simon is jolted forward and chokes a little. Matt moans at that, and Simon squeezes Matt’s hips, eyes scowling.

“Sorry,” Matt whispers hoarsely.

Simon goes to work after that, with no less finesse here than he had had the other night. He’s seriously going to kill Matt. He takes Matt in to the base, and all Matt can do is clutch the armrest and stare dumbly. Simon reaches up, taking Matt’s hand and placing it on the back of his head. He pushes slightly, and when Matt doesn’t take the hint, he pulls off with a filthy little _pop_.

“Go on, Matt. I know you want to. I can take it. I promise,” he whispers, all in a rush and voice sounding wrecked already.

“Simon,” Matt mutters weakly.

“Shhh,” Simon interrupts. “Fuck my mouth, Matt.”

Matt has to close his eyes and count to ten to keep from moaning and coming right then. When he opens his eyes again, Simon leans forward to let the head rest on his bottom lip. Matt shudders and pushes in and in until he can’t go any further. He holds there a moment, and Simon stays. Matt pulls Simon’s hair, drawing back again. Simon sucks in a breath through his nose and sucks at the head. Matt whimpers and pushes back in. Simon hums encouragingly, hands anchoring on Matt’s thighs. Matt finally goes for it, and Simon looks like this is doing as much for him as it is for Matt. Matt lets his head fall back with a silent moan, and when he looks back up, he sees Flower leaning across the aisle, looking at his watch and counting down on his fingers.

Three . . . Two . . . One. . . 

Flower pulls Tanger across the aisle and they share a New Year’s kiss in the darkened cabin. They break apart and grin at each other, squeezing each other’s hands before settling back into their seats. Matt looks back down at Simon who has his eyes closed, mouth stretched around the base of Matt’s cock. He pulls Simon off his cock and cups his face. Simon looks up at him, pupils blown, breathing labored. Matt leans down to kiss him tenderly. The moonlight shines through the window across the aisle, and it’s kind of perfect.

“Happy New Year,” Matt whispers, pressing his forehead to Simon’s.

Simon grins. “Happy New Year.”

Matt lets Simon take over again, because he’s not the best with being in control, and it doesn’t take long to get him to the edge. He tugs at Simon’s hair to warn him so he can pull off if he wants to, though Matt’s not sure how he would contain the mess if Simon did. Luckily, Simon stays put, letting Matt spill into his mouth, stroking him through it until Matt can’t take anymore, pulling Simon off. Simon swallows and grins up at him like the dork he is. “Was that good?”

“So good,” Matt whispers, putting himself away. “Now come up here so I can do you.”

“You don’t have to . . . ,” Simon starts, lifting himself back into his seat.

“I want to,” Matt says impatiently, pushing the armrest between them up. “C’mon, turn this way.”

Simon lets Matt situate him how he wants and tugs his pants and boxers out of the way. Matt hangs his head a moment, then looks up at Simon. “I can’t, um . . .”

“I won’t push you,” Simon assures.

“Okay,” Matt nods. “Yeah.”

Matt leans forward and takes the head between his lips. It’s been years since he’s done this, and he’s nervous as hell because he wants this to be good for Simon. And it must show because Simon covers Matt’s hands where they’re shaking on Simon’s knees. Matt leans back to look at him.

“You really don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Matt says quietly. “It’s just . . . been a while, and I want it to be good for you.”

“You’ll be fine,” Simon assures with a soft smile.

Matt smiles back and leans down again. He takes Simon in as far as he can which is still pretty far, though he can’t go all the way like Simon had. Simon strokes a reassuring hand through his hair anyway. As he works Simon’s cock, it all comes back, and Matt picks up a few of his old tricks. (He’ll never admit it, but he used to be a pro back in the day.) Simon groans quietly and knots his hand in Matt’s short curls, not pushing, just hanging on. And it doesn’t take long for Matt to have Simon gasping and swearing above him. He works his way down until he’s taken Simon all the way, and he barely resists the urge to fist pump.

“’m close,” Simon whispers, tugging Matt’s hair gently.

Matt just goes for it then, sending Simon hurtling to the edge, and Simon’s orgasm sneaks up on him, hitting him like a punch in the gut. He chokes back a moan, and Matt just takes everything Simon gives, swallowing around him and stroking him through it. Simon whimpers, and Matt pulls off, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Fuck,” Simon breathes and pulls his pants back up weakly.

“Like that?” Matt smiles in the darkness.

“Matty, you’re incredible. Who taught you how to suck dick like that?”

Matt blushes; he doesn’t want to talk about his past. “Juniors,” he mumbles.

“A lot of juniors?”

Matt drops his head. “A few.”

Simon cups Matt’s jaw, tipping his face up. “Matty, that’s nothing to be ashamed of. It doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you. Everybody had their phases in Juniors. Now get up here.”

And Simon pulls Matt up into his chest. Matt goes easily, curling into Simon’s warmth.

“Did you?” he asks quietly.

“Did I what?”

“Have that phase?”

Simon shrugs. “Traded with a few guys a few times.”

Matt can’t stop himself from wondering, Is this just a trade agreement or something? Are they just . . . trading orgasms? Is there no meaning behind it? Because there are a lot of things Matt is never going to admit, and at the very top of that list is the fact that this doesn’t mean nothing to him. He doesn’t ask any of these questions, partly because he’s not sure he wants to know the answers and partly because Simon is asleep above him.

Matt doesn’t sleep.

The team spends the next day drinking at Nealer’s place, making up for missing New Year’s parties the night before. Matt sits in a corner and drinks in quick succession, passing out before midnight. He wakes late the next day with dicks drawn all over his face. He silently thanks whichever older, responsible player didn’t let the guys use Sharpie. He washes off what he can in the downstairs bathroom and takes a cab home . . . and Simon is there waiting outside his door. Because of course he is.

“How’s your head?” he asks quietly.

Matt grimaces anyway. “Hurts.”

Simon frowns sympathetically. “Sorry. I brought some PediaLite. It’s good for hangovers,” he says, weakly holding up the plastic bag at his side.

“Thank you,” Matt says, and fumbles for his keys. He gets the door open, and Simon follows him inside. He should be a polite host, but he stumbles to his living room to fall over on his couch instead, pulling a pillow over his head and hoping Simon understands. He hears Simon milling around in the kitchen, and he’s about halfway asleep when the couch dips beside him. He peeks out from under his pillow, and there’s Simon with a glass of something vaguely cloudy. Matt sits up and curls himself into Simon’s side. Simon wraps an arm around Matt’s shoulders and offers him the glass. Matt takes it and takes a tentative sip. It’s not great, but if it will help his raging headache. . . Simon strokes his back absently and flips on the tv, switching it over to the Wild-Stars game, turning the volume down to a quiet hum. He lets Matt lean on him as he drinks his foggy water, moving only to go fix Matt another glass when he finishes the first. By the end of his second glass, Matt’s headache is mostly gone, just a dull throb at the base of his skull now. Simon takes the glass and sets it on a coaster on the coffee table before leaning back and pulling Matt in again.

“Better?” he murmurs into Matt’s hair, laying a kiss on his temple.

Matt nods and settles into Simon’s warmth. His eyelids get heavy, and he dozes on and off for a while. Simon just lets Matt sleep on him, still stroking his back, and Matt thinks, it’s kind of a perfect evening. Simon leaves at eight, and Matt ambles boredly around his apartment until eleven and then goes to bed.

They play the Rangers at home the next day. It’s neither of their best games of the season, but Matt gets an assist in the Pens’ five to two win. After practice the day after, Simon invites Matt out to dinner. They go to the diner outside of town; Simon drives.

“So,” Simon grins, halfway through dinner. “We’ve got a bit of a break coming up.”

“Oh?” Matt says, a thrum of anticipation lighting just under his skin.

“Mhm,” Simon hums. “We play in Calgary next weekend, then don’t have a game until Wednesday. And after _that_ game, we don’t have one until Monday. We could . . .” He flickers his eyebrows as means of explanation, and it’s more dorky than anything, but Matt swallows hard anyway.

“We could,” he agrees, fighting to keep his voice steady.

“Great,” Simon grins and nudges Matt’s foot under the table.

Matt wants to ask if that’s the only reason Simon invited him out . . . Or if this is an actual date. If it’s a meeting to discuss another “trade,” or if . . .

Simon pays for both their dinners and then drives Matt back to his apartment, but doesn’t walk him up, leaving him with a kiss in the car . . . not that Matt was expecting him to walk him to his door or anything, but . . . Could this be considered mixed signals? Because it’s driving Matt nuts. He wants it to mean something, but he still can’t _wait_ for next weekend.

Simon is scratched for the game against Winnipeg. It’s a hard fought battle, but the Pens tie it up in the third, and Matt notches the game winner. After all the post-game, the team is bussed to the airport. Simon doesn’t sit with him on the bus or the plane, but they do room together. They have a few hours to sleep before practice, and Simon slides into bed beside Matt, cuddles him up, and they sleep. The game the next day is terrible. They barely scrape out a five to four shootout win, and after Sid yells for half an hour and they get through post-game, they’re being shipped out again, to Edmonton.

They have the next day off, and Matt wakes with Simon’s mouth around his cock. Matt moans, shameless in his sleep-addled state, and runs a hand through Simon’s messy curls. Simon looks up, a grin in his eyes. He winks and reaches up to press a finger behind Matt’s balls. Matt throws his head back with a loud moan, and he can feel Simon laugh at him, but right now he doesn’t care. But then Simon’s pulling off, and Matt whines, hips canting up in search of friction. Simon holds him down with a hand on his hip and moves up Matt’s body.

“Do me a favor?” he asks, voice already sounding wrecked as he straddles Matt’s hips.

“Hm?” Matt whimpers.

Simon presses two fingertips to Matt’s bottom lip. “Get these wet for me?”

“Just what exactly are you thinking of doing with those?” Matt asks, a little breathless.

“You’ll see,” Simon grins wickedly.

Matt groans and lets Simon slide his fingers into his mouth. Simon finger fucks Matt’s mouth, and it really shouldn’t be this hot, but Matt is painfully turned on as he laves Simon’s fingers with his tongue. He closes his eyes, tips his head back for a better angle, and moans around Simon’s fingers. Simon moans and shudders, but then he’s pulling his fingers out, and Matt whimpers at the loss, eyes snapping open.

“I know, I know, but . . . ,” and even Simon can’t come up with words, so he just slides back down Matt’s body, getting his mouth on Matt again. Matt moans and bucks into Simon’s mouth once until Simon holds him down. Simon slides down, taking Matt all the way in, and Matt almost misses Simon’s finger pressing against his ass. He yelps in surprise, and Simon just slides back up, pushing just the tip of his finger into Matt. And Matt feels like he’s going to shatter into a million pieces. But then Simon’s sliding down and pushing his finger in, in, and it’s too much sensation for this early in the morning. Matt shakes his head back and forth, hands fisting in the sheets. Simon works Matt’s cock and pushes his finger in and out relentlessly. And then he’s pushing his second finger in, and Matt doesn’t have the brain capacity to figure out if that’s better or worse. Matt whimpers and brushes his hands over Simon’s shoulders, as far as he can reach. Simon doesn’t let up, sliding his mouth up and down Matt’s cock from tip to base and fucking his fingers roughly in and out of Matt. And then he crooks his fingers, hitting Matt’s prostate perfectly.

“Simon, _fuck_ ,” Matt cries out.

Simon hits that spot again and again, and he’s seriously going to kill Matt. And Matt doesn’t know which touch to push into, because Simon isn’t keeping rhythm which is driving Matt crazy with the alternating sensations. Matt’s orgasm hits him like a freight train, and he comes so hard, he nearly blacks out with it. By the time he comes back to the surface of awareness, Simon’s already coming where he’s been rutting against Matt’s thigh.

“Sorry,” is the first thing Matt says. “I’ll get you next time, yeah?”

Simon laughs and kisses him.

*********

“We’re sending you back down.”

Matt shouldn’t have been eavesdropping, and now he wishes he hadn’t. He covers his face with his hands and takes several slow breaths, trying to calm down. The door opens beside him, and in a second, Simon has his arms around Matt, holding him tight. Matt clings to him, because he’s here now, and he’s going to be gone soon. Simon leads him back to their room, and Matt sits on the other bed while Simon packs. Once he’s done, they lay together on Matt’s bed, not speaking, just holding on to each other. Finally, it’s time for Matt to go to practice. They stand together at the door, Simon’s arms around Matt’s waist, Matt’s hands clutching Simon’s shoulders.

“Are you coming?” Matt asks quietly.

Simon shakes his head. “They called a cab to come pick me up in a little while.”

“You’re . . . leaving _tonight_?”

Simon nods and holds Matt tighter.

“I don’t want you to go,” Matt whispers against Simon’s shoulder, quiet enough that he hopes Simon doesn’t hear.

“I wish I weren’t. I’m gonna miss you, Matty.”

“Gonna miss you, too.”

Simon turns his head to nuzzle into Matt’s dark curls. “I love you, Matty.”

And Matt must have misheard him, so he doesn’t say anything, just clings to Simon. Until Simon lets go of him, looking kind of hurt.

“You better go along,” he mumbles. He gets Matt’s bag, handing it to him, before nudging him out the door. He offers a crooked smile. “See you around.”

And all Matt can do is go to practice. The Pens lose to fucking _Edmonton_. They have a game the very next night, and Matt notches the eventual game winner. And then it’s the weekend, the weekend that Matt and Simon were going to . . .

When the team gets back to Pittsburgh, Matt takes a cab to his apartment and crashes on his couch. Until Wednesday, the only time he leaves his apartment is for practice. The Pens take on the Caps at Consol Wednesday night, and Matt notches two assists in the four to three victory. And then he’s alone again. Flower invites him to hang out with him and Tanger a few times, but Matt just ends up feeling like a third wheel. The rest of January goes well for the team; they pick up mostly good wins, a couple stupid losses. Matt remembers how to exist without Simon attached to his hip, though he still misses the other boy. He texts Simon sometimes, and Simon texts back when he can, but their schedules never seem to line up right. February starts rough; every game except the one in Buffalo, is a complete shitshow. The news of Tanger’s stroke hits the team like a ton of bricks, especially Flower. Inexplicably, Coach puts Flower in the night that bomb is dropped, and he does what he can, but the game goes to a shootout, and it’s clear his heart’s not in it. And then it’s time for the Olympics, and they have two weeks off. Simon still has games with the WBS Penguins, so Matt goes home, visits with family, and it’s nice. When he gets back to Pittsburgh, he feels good. They have one last game in February, and the month ends with a tough shootout loss against the Canadiens. But then the monstrosity of February ends, and the Pens are staring the outdoor game against the Blackhawks in the face.

After all the postgame after the game against the Canadiens, the team is bussed to the airport . . . and Simon is there, waiting. He doesn’t say a word to Matt, opting instead to take to Flower. He bustles around with everyone at practice the day before the game, always coming back to bump shoulders with Matt, but not saying much. They room together that night and sleep in separate beds.

The outdoor game is the biggest shitshow of the season.

They fly out the next day. On the plane, Matt pulls Simon down the aisle, pushes him into a window seat, and plops himself down in the aisle seat before Simon can protest.

“We need to talk,” Matt says.

“Okay,” Simon nods.

Neither of them says anything else until the plane reaches cruising altitude.

“Are we okay?” Matt asks.

Simon shrugs. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

“Since you’ve been back . . . Well . . . ,” Matt starts. “We haven’t . . .”

“Gotten each other off?”

“Talked,” Matt finishes. “Since you were brought back up.”

Simon hesitates. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Us,” Matt answers immediately, then blushes. “I mean, what are we?”

“Hockey players?” Simon guesses.

“I mean,” Matt sighs. “You know what I mean.”

Simon looks at him a moment, then shrugs. “What do you want to be?”

“What do you want to be?” Matt counters.

Simon frowns.

“Okay, let me ask you something,” Matt starts over. “Before you left . . . Did you say . . . ?”

“I told you I love you,” Simon says.

“I thought . . . ,” Matt breaks off shaking his head.

“Thought what, Matty?” Simon asks quietly.

“Thought I’d misheard you,” Matt says, looking up to meet Simon’s eyes. “I was worried that we were just . . . just fuckbuddies or something, and I was scared because what we had meant more to me than that, and I didn’t know . . .”

“You know now,” Simon says firmly. Then he leans forward to kiss Matt, chaste but firm. “I love you, Matty,” he murmurs against Matt’s mouth.

“Fuck, Simon, I love you, too,” Matt says, voice coming out a little broken. Then he surges forward to kiss Simon again like an overexcited puppy. Simon catches Matt in his arms and holds him tight, calming Matt with the assurance that Simon is _here_ with him right now, and he _loves_ him.

_Flash_.

“Dammit, Flower!”

Matt sits back and laughs while Simon launches himself over the back of the seat, wrestles Flower’s phone out of his hand, and deletes the picture. Then Simon tosses it back over the seat so it bounces off Flower’s head, and Matt giggles at all the French swearing coming from the seat in front of them.

Things settle down after that. Most of the guys are asleep around them, and Matt and Simon sit curled against each other, hands intertwined between them. Matt stares at their hands, turning them over and over.

“How long?” he whispers eventually.

Simon ducks his head and blushes. “Since we were playing on the same line back in November?”

Matt gawks. “You could have said something!”

“I thought I was being pretty obvious,” Simon counters, and Matt remembers all the times Simon had flirted or invaded his personal space that he’d chalked up to Simon being an overly friendly French Canadian. “How long for you?”

“Same time,” Matt says.

“ _You_ could have said something,” Simon accuses playfully.

“I didn’t know . . .” Matt trails off.

“I didn’t either,” Simon points out.

“Well,” Matt muses. “I guess we both could have done better.”

They grin at each other, then settle in to sleep for the rest of the flight.

For the next week, it seems like they spend more time on planes than on ice. Finally, they’re back in Pittsburgh for their second game in as many days against the Caps. The shutout feels like heaven. Neither of them can sit still through post-game, because they have three days before their next game, and they haven’t talked about it, but they both know it’s going to happen tonight.

Matt can’t get the door open. His hands are shaking too hard, and he drops his keys a second time. Simon presses him into the door, mouth hot on his throat.

“Simon . . . Simon,” he says, voice coming out embarrassingly breathy. He whimpers and pulls Simon off with a hand in his hair. “We can’t fuck in the hallway.”

Simon huffs, but bends to pick up the keys, nudging Matt out of the way and opening the door easily. Matt kinda wants to hit him, but then Simon’s dragging him inside, closing the door, and crowding Matt up against it, and Matt forgets all about it. They get hung up there a bit, making out against the door, hands pulling roughly at each other, but really doing nothing to take it any further yet. Matt pulls back first.

“We should . . . bedroom?” he gasps out.

Simon nods. “Yeah, that’s . . . yeah.”

And they stumble to the bedroom together. Once there, Simon pushes Matt down onto the bed and slides atop him, hands snaking under the other boy’s shirt, pushing it up and off. He attaches his mouth to Matt’s throat, and Matt shivers and moans beneath him. Matt’s previously fumbling hands make quick work of the buttons of Simon’s shirt and push it off his shoulders. Both shirts get tossed over the side of the bed, and pants and boxers quickly follow.

“Do you have . . . ?” Simon asks.

“Top drawer,” Matt says, waving vaguely in the direction of the nightstand. And then Simon’s heat is gone, and Matt whines and shivers at the loss, but Simon’s back in a second, popping the cap of the bottle and settling between Matt’s thighs, nudging them a little further apart. Matt watches, rapt, as Simon slicks up a finger and lowers it out of Matt’s sight.

“Ready?” Simon asks.

Matt can only nod, and Simon slides his finger in slow. Matt’s breath hisses out between his teeth, and Simon strokes a hand up and down his thigh. The stretch is good, but it quickly becomes not enough, feeling like teasing more than anything.

“Another, please,” he hears himself gasp out.

Instead, Simon pulls his finger out, and Matt’s swears at him, but he’s back a second later, sliding in two slick fingers. The burn feels awesome, and as he starts to stretch Matt, the other boy has to get a hand around the base of his cock to keep himself from coming too soon. He’s so focused on getting himself back off the edge that he almost misses Simon adding a third finger until Simon crooks his fingers, and then Matt is arching off the bed, swearing vehemently. Simon continues to assault that same spot until Matt shoves weakly at him.

“You have to . . . I’m gonna . . . ,” Matt huffs out weakly.

But Simon hits Matt’s prostate again, and it’s all Matt can take. He’s coming, his orgasm pulsing through him as Simon rubs circles over his prostate. And then it’s over, and Matt can’t take anymore. He whines and squirms, but Simon doesn’t let up, and it’s _too much_.

“Think you can go again, Matty?” Simon’s voice drifts through the haze, and he just sounds so hopeful. They don’t know how long Simon will be here, and this is the last break of the season that’s long enough to do this, and . . . Matt just can’t say no. He whimpers and nods. Simon squeezes Matt’s thigh as he pulls his fingers out, and Matt’s skin tingles, still oversensitive. But now he feels open and empty, and he wants nothing more than for Simon to slide in, fill him up again. He cracks his eyes open to watch Simon tear open the condom packet with his teeth. Matt leans up to help Simon slide the condom on, then reaches for the lube bottle, figuring he can at least pleasure Simon while he finishes coming down. He slicks Simon up, stroking slow and deliberate, chin resting on Simon’s sternum, looking up at him. Simon wraps one arm around Matt, stroking a warm hand between his shoulder blades, and the other hand comes up to tangle in Matt’s dark curls. Simon leans down to kiss him, hot and uncoordinated as Matt strokes him. After a few moments, Simon shudders and pushes Matt down onto the bed, leaning down to lay flush against him.

“You good?” he huffs out against Matt’s throat.

“Yeah, ‘m good,” Matt says, just as breathless.

Simon props up on an elbow and reaches down between them with his free hand to line himself up. Matt moans, head tipping back against the bed, because Simon is _right there_ , and they are finally going to do this. Simon pushes, and Matt tilts his hips, and the head slips in. Simon stills, and Matt can’t take that, so he hooks his ankles on the backs of Simon’s thighs and eases him in, in, a perfect drag that has him clutching at Simon’s shoulders, nails probably leaving marks. When Simon bottoms out, he looses an almost animalistic moan and claims Matt’s mouth with his own. Matt whimpers and moves his legs up to wrap around Simon‘s waist. He rolls his hips, urging Simon in that last little bit, and his cock is getting back in the game, rousing where he’s rubbing up against Simon’s belly. Simon gets his hands on Matt’s hips, pressing burning bruises into his skin, and finally starts to move. He starts off easy, a gentle drag that is driving Matt crazy more than anything. Matt has to break their sloppy kiss to gasp out, “Please, Simon. Please, just _give it to me_.”

And Simon complies. He adjusts his angle and begins to drive in harder, picking up speed as he goes. Matt moves with him, pulling him in deep. Simon gets his mouth on Matt’s neck, hot and rough, and Matt’s already seeing fireworks behind his eyes. He clutches at Simon, breath coming in little gasps and curses with ever thrust, as he is sent hurtling to the edge. If he hadn’t come once already, he would be done, but he manages to hang on as Simon slams into him over and over. But then Simon hits his prostate, and Matt arches hard against him with a low moan, barely staving off his orgasm. After that, Simon applies the same precision he always does when he’s with Matt, hitting that same spot with every thrust, driving in hard against it. Matt cries out every time, and he won’t be surprised if the whole building will know what’s happening, but right now, he doesn’t care as long as Simon doesn’t stop. His vision starts to blur, and he shudders with it, trying to hold out. But Simon hits his prostate two, three more times and that’s it. Matt’s coming again, shaking and pulsing between them, untouched. Simon fucks him through it, but at the constriction of the already tight heat around his cock, he loses his rhythm. He thrusts erratically into Matt, and Matt’s quietly begging him to come. And finally, Simon does, pumping once, twice and stilling. Matt, oversensitive again, revels in the feel of it, Simon’s cock pulsing inside him as Simon hits his peak.

When he’s given all he can, Simon collapses half on top of Matt, breath coming ragged against Matt’s neck. Matt’s hands stroke lazily over Simon’s back, as he also tries to catch his breath. Eventually, he pushes gently at Simon, and the other boy pulls out. Matt’s eyes slip shut, and he lays boneless as Simon ties off the condom and tosses it in the trash can beside the bed. Matt’s sticky and sweaty, and just gross in general, but all he wants to do right now is sleep. Simon has other ideas. He nudges at Matt until the spent boy opens his eyes again. Then he half drags, half carries Matt into the bathroom and leans him on the counter while he cleans him up. Finally, they get back to the bed, pulling the sheets off and tossing them in the floor before crawling between the blankets. Matt turns over on his side, and Simon pulls him against his body and cuddles him up.

“I love you, Matty,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss the top of Matt’s head.

“Love you, Simon,” Matt mumbles.

And they both drift off to sleep.

*********

The rest of the season isn’t great. They take a few shitty losses, and they have more games than they’d like go to overtime and shootouts, but they’re going to the playoffs. Tanger comes back on the ninth of April against Detroit, and no one’s going to admit it, but the Pens hand Detroit a playoff spot by letting the game go to overtime. They do win that game, though. In the last couple games of the season, the roster gets all screwed around, with vets sitting out and kids being brought up from the farm to play. They lose their last two games, one in overtime and one in the shootout, but after it’s over, it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s playoff time.

At morning practice on the fifteenth, the day before their first playoff game, Coach tells Simon he’s being sent back down. Simon tells Matt after practice, and Matt kind of saw it coming, but it still sucks. They vow to spend the day together. First they go out to lunch in town and then to the park to walk and talk and enjoy each other’s company while they can. They mill around town aimlessly and then decide to get dinner at the diner outside of town. When they leave, the sun is finishing its descent, and Simon drives them a little further into the middle of nowhere. As the stars begin to flicker to life, he pulls over into a little field and shuts off the car. They get out and lay on the hood; Simon takes Matt’s hand and points out all the constellations, just like that night so many months ago. Around midnight, they get back in the car because Matt’s shivering in the crisp summer evening. Simon drives slowly back to Matt’s apartment, taking a few detours just to prolong the inevitable, but finally gives in.

He walks Matt to his apartment, and Matt struggles not to invite him in, because he knows Simon can’t, that he needs to get on the road. They stand together at the door, not saying anything for several moments. Finally, Matt surges forward and seizes Simon in a tight hug.

“I’m gonna miss you,” he says, muffled against Simon’s shoulder.

Simon holds him tight, stroking his back. “Gonna miss you, too, Matty.”

Matt leans up to kiss Simon, trying to communicate everything he’s thinking. Simon holds him, runs a hand into Matt’s hair, calming him. Matt melts against him, and they lose track of time, clinging to each other, sharing their goodbye kiss. Eventually, Simon breaks it, pulling back only far enough to press their foreheads together.

“I gotta leave. Practice bright and early in the morning,” he murmurs.

Matt whimpers and leans up to kiss him once.

“You kick ass in playoffs, okay?” Simon says.

Matt nods against him. “For you.”

“And we’ll hang out this summer, yeah?”

Matt nods again, eyes slipping closed.

“Matty, Matt, look at me,” Simon tugs Matt’s hair gently to get him to look up. “I love you, Matty.”

“I love you, too, Simon,” Matt whispers.

“I’ll see you.”

Simon leans down to kiss him one last time, before pulling back, disentangling himself from Matt. He squeezes the other boy’s hands once with a small, sad smile before letting go and turning to leave. Matt leans weakly on his doorframe, watching Simon walk down the hall and turn the corner to take the stairs down. Finally, he unlocks his door and pushes into his too-quiet apartment. He moves to the window and watches the road. And there. A lone car in the sleeping town. He watches Simon drive out of sight, and stays there for several minutes afterward. Finally, he moves to his bedroom, stripping and brushing his teeth mechanically before sliding into his cold bed, alone. He knows Simon will watch every game he can, and Matt will play his hardest in every game, for Simon.

**Author's Note:**

> No offense intended towards the Ottawa Senators or the state of Ohio.


End file.
